The End of the World As They Knew It
by sonicfizz
Summary: A virus, mutated and developed in the depths of space, brought to Earth on a meteor. The inhabitants of the planet, transformed into hideous zombies that prey on any other living thing. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will do whatever it takes to survive. (Rated T but the story may not merit it… at this point I'm not really sure exactly how it will turn out). More coming.
1. Chapter 1

If anyone was prepared for a zombie apocalypse, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were.

They'd done all the necessary research, bought all the necessary weapons, made all the necessary upgrades to their house. "Yes," they'd tell concerned neighbours when asked, albeit wearily. "We're prepared for the end of human civilisation as we know it. We're prepared."

They all liked to say it, of course. If nothing else, they all liked to reassure themselves. It was human nature. But as an ex-army doctor and a genius detective, Sherlock and John were better prepared than most. It was Mrs Hudson they were worried about.

"Nothing interesting on the news," Sherlock announced as John walked into the room.

"Nothing about the meteor?"

"Still six days away yet."

"And you don't classify that as interesting?"

"Six days is too long."

"Too long?" John said incredulously. "Are you hearing yourself? You realise that this meteor is carrying a virus on it, right? And you realise it's probably going to turn every living thing into a zombie? When it comes it's not going to be a tea party."

"It's not going to be boring either," Sherlock countered. "I'm _bored_, John. There are no cases coming through. The police don't care about deaths anymore, because there's going to be a whole lot more in a week's time."

"Sherlock, concentrate," John said. "We need to figure out what to do about Mrs Hudson. Let's face it, she's not in any state to be fighting zombies."

Sherlock simply shrugged, much to his flatmate's dismay. "Do you even care?" John demanded. "Do you want Mrs Hudson to survive, Sherlock? Because I sure as hell do!"

Now Sherlock concentrated, because if there was one thing he cared about it was Mrs Hudson's life. "John, you need to stay calm," he said soothingly. "Of course I want Mrs Hudson to live. And I'll look after her. I'll be damned if I'll let anything happen to her."

John allowed himself to smile slightly. He'd been stressed recently. Sherlock had barely been paying attention to their impending doom, so it had been John who had to buy the weapons, to read up on what to do, to make a plan. Yes, he'd been stressed. But they were going to be alright, weren't they?

They were going to be alright.


	2. Chapter 2

**2 weeks after the impact**

Face coated in sweat. Eyes wild. Breath coming in short bursts. Legs aching.

Just round this corner and he was home. Round this corner and he'd be back at Baker Street.

John skidded around the corner, but now there was another pack of zombies coming from the opposite direction and he was trapped, they were coming from both directions and he was trapped.

"Sherlock!" he roared to the window of 221B. "Sherlock, help!" It occurred to him that his flatmate was probably sleeping, so he turned away from the flat, cursing Sherlock and making a mental note to scold him when he got back.

If he got back.

John crossed the road, but the horde of zombies wasn't that stupid, they would figure it out and come after him. He was buying himself time, but they were nearly on him.

"Damn it," he growled under his breath. He had a pistol but bullets were rare and there was no point wasting them on these zombies. It wouldn't work anyway. For buggers like these you needed a machine gun, something with enough kick to blow their heads right off their bodies. Unfortunately, this was only a routine resource run. He'd wanted to search a couple of houses for food and maybe ammunition. The pistol had only been in case he had to deal with other scavengers. He hadn't been expecting any zombies.

They were gathering at the door of number 221. They could smell Sherlock and Mrs Hudson, obviously. Apparently the scent of the two of them was more overpowering than John's alone.

They were trying to break down the door. He didn't doubt that they could manage it, for although the virus had wasted them away to skin and bone – minus the skin in some cases – there was a lot of them, more than enough combined strength to break down a door that hadn't been designed to withstand a zombie apocalypse.

He bolted back across the road. By John's reasoning, the house next door to 221 should be the same layout as his own house. He knew nobody lived there; the residents had left. Most people had left, gone to live with others. Safety in numbers. If Sherlock and John had had any friends then they would probably have done that too.

The door would take too long to break down. The window, go for the window. He removed his jacket to cover the glass and elbowed the window sharply. A crack appeared. Grunting, he elbowed the crack again. It spread, but still didn't shatter. One final elbow and it broke. The zombies were still preoccupied with 221 and the door was starting to look rather unsteady.

After picking up his jacket John clambered through, into a living room. It seemed nice enough. A kid's home, it would seem, by the drawings hung on the wall and the books on the shelf.

He bolted up the stairs and leaned out the upstairs window. He swung it open and climbed out, clinging desperately to the window frame and trying not to think about the hard pavement and the vicious zombies below him.

It was a simple enough task. Jump from this window to the next, the next window being that of 221B. Simple enough on paper, but actually looking at it, it seemed awfully far.

When he looked down, he couldn't help but think of the form of his best friend, lying lifeless on the pavement beneath St Bart's. The image still haunted him. He remembered how the blood had pooled around his head, like a sick version of a halo.

"Don't think about that," he muttered to himself. And then with a wild jump he was flying through the air, his coat billowing out behind him. The window was rushing up rapidly.

His fingers grasped at the window frame. His body slammed into the wall beneath it. The impact almost made him lose his grip, but he curled his fingers in as much as he could and hauled himself up. He was there. Now to smash another window.

Balancing precariously on the ledge, he held his jacket out and repeated what he had done a moment before to next door's downstairs window. He stabbed at the window with his elbow. Then again. At the third stab, he pulled his elbow back a little too far, overbalancing and slipping off the ledge.

He was certain that he was going to hit the ground below and be consumed by the zombies. Certain. But somehow, somehow, his fingers found purchase on the ledge. His body twisted awkwardly, but with sore fingers he pulled himself up once again.

One more elbow to the window and he was through. Discarding his jacket on the floor, he rushed through the kitchen, down the hallway beyond and into Sherlock's room.

"Get up, you bloody stupid idiot!" he bellowed. Sherlock woke with a start.

"What?" he slurred groggily.

"Get up!" John repeated. "There are zombies breaking down the front door. Get your gun and get the hell up!"

There was a machine gun propped on the wall next to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock grabbed it as he got up. No need to get dressed; the men always slept in their clothes now.

John's own gun was in the living room, resting on the sofa. He picked it up and followed the dark-haired man down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson was in the downstairs hallway, teeth chattering in absolute terror. Sherlock spared time to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

"It's going to be okay, Mrs Hudson," John said, knowing full well that he was probably wrong.

"We'll need to open the door, John," Sherlock called. "They'll be coming in as soon as I open it. Are you ready?"

John nodded. "Mrs Hudson, get upstairs," he ordered. "Sherlock's bedroom is safest, it's furthest back. Get in there, don't come back until we tell you to."

She nodded mutely. John watched in worry. She had trouble getting up stairs sometimes, with her hip. Would she be okay?

He almost smiled. It was funny what people worried about.

"Okay, Sherlock. I'm ready."

"Three... two... one!"

Sherlock heaved the door open and the zombies started piling in. The first one in was shot immediately by Sherlock. The second one was dealt with by John. One, two, three bursts and it was down. Sherlock moved back, baiting the zombies in; they were easier to deal with one by one than in the crowd outside the door.

Five, ten, fifteen zombies went down and still more were coming. Bullets were sprayed into the zombies with marvellous precision. John was halfway up the stairs; it was a good vantage point. Sherlock stayed at ground level.

Two zombies left. The skin was peeling off on the side of one's face, revealing the bone underneath. "You're an ugly bugger," Sherlock growled, before pulling the trigger and watching as it fell to the ground, dead.

That was his deadly mistake. As he watched it fall, the last one gripped his bicep. It snarled as it dragged Sherlock to it.

John was down the stairs in two leaps and running to Sherlock. Its jaws were about to clamp down on him. It was going to spread its virus to John's only friend. It was going to...

The first bullet bored a hole through its cheek. It didn't kill, but it distracted it.

"The cheek, John? Really?" Sherlock moaned.

"I was aiming for the head," John explained. He aimed again and this time it carved its way through the head. A shot to the brain would kill even a zombie. It released its hold on Sherlock and fell to the ground.

"Do you really have to complain when I'm saving your life?" John said. "It's really bloody annoying."

The two of them dragged the numerous bodies out into the street and closed the door behind them, bolting it shut.

It had been an average day.

**Note: I am aware that there are some inaccuracies regarding the exterior of 221B Baker Street and the surrounding houses. Canonically, there is a small balcony along the upper windows of the houses; however, I thought jumping from one window to the next would be more exciting than running along a balcony. Thank you for reading this far despite the admittedly slightly boring first chapter and I hope you decide to read on. :) **


	3. Chapter 3

Greg Lestrade was John and Sherlock's main source of information. About once a week he would turn up at their door and give them the latest news – who had died, who was infected, who had been attacked. Grim stories of people that they had known in a life that now seemed so long ago.

Most of the time they simply accepted the information as if they had been told what they were having for dinner. They had not had many friends before the virus and they had even less now. One more person dead was one less person to compete with for food and ammo.

But Molly Hooper was a different case.

"She was part of a pack that set up base in St Bart's," Greg explained solemnly. Packs were groups of people – normally consisting of around ten or fifteen members – that lived, hunted and fought alongside each other. They generally had all the best resources, but the downside was the smell of the large groups was enough to attract zombies from miles around. They regularly heard news of the large packs being attacked. "It was attacked," Lestrade continued. "No survivors. Twelve people in the pack; nine infected, three dead. She was one of the nine."

John closed his eyes. Out of the few people the pair had been friends with in the past, Molly was the first to be victim to the zombies. "It would be better if she were dead," he whispered. Greg nodded in agreement.

Sherlock was eerily quiet. He stared into space, face showing no signs of emotion.

Greg got up to leave, headed to the door. He got three steps forward before pausing and turning around. "One other thing," he said. "I've heard news about a pack up in Manchester. Led by your brother, I believe, Sherlock. Apparently it's the most well-protected place in the country. You ever thought about joining a pack?"

Sherlock didn't respond; he continued staring into space. Once John realised he wasn't going to answer, he shrugged. "We'll think about it."

Greg nodded and left.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was gone.

John had searched the flat, every room, every nook and cranny, even the roof, but Sherlock wasn't there.

Sherlock had remained silent all evening, not eating the scarce canned rations they had rescued from neighbouring houses, not even making a snide remark when John tried suggesting going to live with Mycroft. But when he had gone to bed without a word, John had imagined he would still be there in the morning.

Horrible thoughts raced through his head... _Zombies bandits Moriarty what if what if what if... _But there was one option he tried to block out, tried not to think about, it was too horrible, but now it was all he could think about.

Suicide.

Images of that day raced through his mind at light speed. The day he had thought Sherlock was gone forever, never coming back. Yet Sherlock had once again tricked his way out of what to normal people would be certain death. But this time, maybe he wouldn't fight it. Maybe he wouldn't come back.

John felt sick. Lights danced before his eyes. He was dizzy, hyperventilating, his mouth was dry. He tried to clear his panicked head. Where would he go if he was going to kill himself?

The answer was obvious. The same place he had gone three years ago. St Bart's.

Before he knew it, his coat was on and he was running to St Bart's. He rounded the last corner, faster than any of the times he'd been pursued by zombies. There was a skinny, pale form stood on the roof of St Bart's, looking down at the ground.

"Sherlock!" John roared.

He flew through the doors, up the stairs three at a time. There was carnage all around him, although he barely processed it. The bodies of zombies lay still, blood pooling around them. The walls and floor were riddled with bullet holes. Windows were smashed, medical equipment was strewn over the floor.

But John's mind was elsewhere. He climbed the final set of stairs that led to the roof, and eventually stopped, panting, as he stood behind his best friend.

"Sherlock," he wheezed, "please, come over here."

"I killed her, John," Sherlock said quietly.

"What? You killed who, Sherlock?"

"Molly."

John was stunned. He searched for words, not sure whether he wanted to comfort or question the man. After what seemed like an age, he settled for, "Why?"

"She was infected. So, I... I put her down. I put her down, like a sick dog. Along with all the rest of her pack." Tears threatened to drip from his eyes.

"Don't be stupid, Sherlock. She wasn't Molly anymore. Molly was gone."

Sherlock eventually turned to face his friend. "She hadn't turned yet. She was still exactly the same as always. She was... she was scared. Scared that she was going to become a zombie, scared that I was going to kill her. She died scared."

John hung his head. "It had to be done," he whispered. "She was only going to kill people. You had to kill her before it was too late."

Sherlock took one final look at the pavement below, before tentatively walking towards John. "I need to get out of here, or else I won't be able to live with myself. We should... we should go to Mycroft."


End file.
